


We Dwell In Darkness

by Keeroo



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood, Brotherly Bonding, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Fear, Fever, Gen, Hurt, Isolation, Loss, Loss of Identity, One Shot Collection, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Self-Sacrifice, Smut, Torture, Trauma, Whumptober 2019, all aboard the pain train
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-10-04
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:49:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 11,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20775071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keeroo/pseuds/Keeroo
Summary: A collection of my Whumptober 2019 entries! Expect little to no fluff, heaping piles of angst and some deliciously twisted smut. Each chapter will have warnings and relationships listed in the Author's note. Let's have some fun :D





	1. Render Me Broken

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1 - Shaky Hands (featuring Kyrie/Nero) 
> 
> Run of the mill angst warning, a few mentions of graphic death images but no actual death here.

Her stylus flew across the screen, new lines of color following in its wake. Sunlight streamed through the pale curtains to illuminate her desk, making her mocha hair glow. The normally warm room was chilled, the ceiling fan on full blast despite the goosebumps covering her forearms. She added another line and scowled as her hand twitched, leaving a jagged break in her work.

“Darn it,” Kyrie mumbled.

For hours, she’d been sketching. It helped keep her mind from spiraling into despair about where the white-haired love of her life ran off to. It happened every time he went on a mission, the same parade of images featuring his death filling her thoughts until he returned or called her. She never told him how much she worried; he had more important things to think about and usually it wasn’t too bad. She knew how strong he was, knew he could handle almost anything.

But that was before he lost his arm.

Never would she forget the image of him lying in a pool of his own blood, reaching toward the garage door. Her heart didn’t beat again until she felt his pulse under her fingertips. Relief and terror alike guided her hands as she held a towel to the wound, slowing the blood flow as Nico got the car started and raced them to the hospital.

By all rights, Nero should still be there. He needed to heal, to let the doctors do their work but instead he vanished. It sent her into panic when she found his empty bed, not even a note left behind to explain his absence.

_Nero… where are you? _

She _hated_ worrying about him. It felt disloyal to imagine all the ways he might fail, but considering his condition…

A shaky breath rattled the cold air. The stylus shook as she pressed the undo button and she forced her hand to stabilize as she tried the line again.

_Come back to me. Please._

Pins pricked at her tear ducts and she sniffled. Her fingers trembled and the line she drew put her anxiety on full display with its roughness. Her heart clenched and the stylus clattered on the desk as she choked on a sob, desperate to stay strong for the man she loved.

_Stop it! Stop thinking about it!_

She clenched her jaw and swallowed the tears, grasping her stylus tight as she battled her thoughts into submission. There was nothing she could do to help Nero, so there was nothing to gain by thinking about how he might get hurt. How he might _die_.

Would she even know if he did? Would she feel it, or would he just never come home?

_He could **already** be dead._

“Stop it, Kyrie. He’s okay, he’ll be back soon,” she whispered to herself. It didn’t help.

It was hard to breathe as she closed her eyes, taking a moment to remind herself of Nero’s strength. He’d already been through so much; nothing would stop him from coming home. Nothing. She had to have faith, that’s all. He wouldn’t want her to worry.

_Then he shouldn’t have left the hospital!_

If she were being honest, she was angry. What could possibly be so important that he needed to go without telling her, before his wound had time to heal? Why would he risk facing demons before he adjusted to the change? It made no sense, _nothing_ was worth his life.

She gasped as an image of his frozen eyes rose in her mind, blood staining his pale hair. It faded away, only to be replaced with a picture of his chest cavity ripped open, white bone and viscera visible to the naked eye. Shaking fingers wiped at her cheeks, her tears falling free. Tightness grew in her chest and she hiccupped, still trying to hide her pain from anyone who might walk by.

_Please be okay! I need you!_

Her shoulders shook, her spine curling inward as her pain amplified. Credo was already gone, and now Nero might join him. She was alone, so very alone. Why did everyone she cared about end up gone? Why couldn’t she care about someone who ran _away_ from danger instead of straight at it? Why did it hurt _so much_ to love?

“Damnit, Nero!” she cursed quietly.

She covered her mouth, stifling as much sound as she could as she broke. The squeak of her chair joined with her subdued sobbing as she slid to the floor, her knees close to her chest and head bowed. Something was tearing into her chest, digging its way to mutilate her heart. The pressure within built with every second, the urge to wail and scream and shout her pain a tempting option.

_No, I can’t disturb the children!_

With Nero gone, she was all they had. She would _not_ fail them. Not like she failed her brother and her fiancé. Those kids deserved better than to see her like this, they deserved only joy and peace.

So, she trembled, crying as quiet as a mouse in her office. How long she sat there, she didn’t know. All that mattered was she weathered the storm, keeping her terror and sadness out of sight and carrying the weight alone. She’d done it before, she could do it again. As long as the children needed her, she would be there.

_I have to be strong! They need me._

At long last the tears ran out, though visions of Nero’s brutalized corpse still danced in her skull. Her entire body ached as she forced herself to rise, wiping away the last few droplets and sniffling. The pain in her heart was as strong as ever but she lacked the energy to pay it any mind.

Slim fingers flicked the light switch off and she exhaled heavily, pasting a soft smile on her face as she left the room to start dinner. Later that evening, she might return and try to finish the portrait of Nero. Most likely she’d start crying again in the process. The office was her only refuge, her place to hide while she dealt with her pain.

Yes, she’d be back.


	2. Eva's Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 - Explosion (featuring Eva, Dante, and Vergil)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for Character Death (We all know what happened to Eva) 
> 
> Enjoy!

Lithe fingers danced over smooth ivory keys, playing the familiar melody from memory. She loved the texture and every time she played, it transported her to a different time and place, when things were simpler. Before she knew anything about demons or the Underworld, before her children were born and all she needed to worry about was herself.

Not to say she regretted any of her choices; far from it. Eva loved her life, strange as it had become. Dante and Vergil brought her immeasurable joy, and Sparda… she loved him more than she ever imagined was possible. He’d return soon, she had faith. The last year without him was a struggle, but Sparda was strong. She would wait for him as long as it took.

As the last few notes echoed in the air, she smiled. Yes, her life was complicated. But it was also beautiful. She wouldn’t change a thing.

_What’s that smell?_

Her nose twitched as she stood, eyes scanning the room for the source of the acrid stench. It reminded her of gunpowder, or a hot spring.

_Sulphur!_

Sulphur meant demons. Demons meant trouble.

Terror flooded her senses as adrenaline saturated her blood. She ran to the stairs, taking them three at a time towards the boys’ bedroom. They were her top priority – she _had _to keep them safe.

The smell grew stronger. She was running out of time.

“Dante! Vergil!” she called.

And then, a powerful explosion in the main foyer. The demons were in the house. Flames rocketed across the walls, spreading from their entrance like her home was made of kindling. The stairwell was engulfed in orange heat and she coughed on the smoke. Her lungs screamed, begging her to leave the house behind and save herself, but she refused to abandon her children. They needed her and she would _not _fail them.

A second loud boom echoed up the hall as she reached the second floor and raced to the boys’ room. She flinched as the first chittering demonic mouths announced their arrival, pleading with any being that could hear her for mercy.

“Dante! Vergil! Where are you?” she cried.

“Mommy!”

_Dante! But where’s Vergil?!_

There was no time. She heard the clicking demonic legs approaching as a head of white hair came into view, watery and scared blue eyes half hidden by the strands. Dante ran into her waiting arms, his shoulders shaking in terror.

“Come here! You need to hide, Dante.”

Her wide eyes scanned the hall, landing on a small linen closet. With demons already on their way upstairs, there was no chance of outright escape. All she could do was hide her son and pray it was enough to save him. She pulled him to the tiny hiding spot and gently pushed him inside.

“No matter what happens, you mustn’t leave! I need to find Vergil. I promise I’ll be back,” she said, trying to keep her voice calm and reassuring. Her hands cupped his cheeks, memorizing the feel of his precious face. She knew she may never get another chance.

She knew her own chances of survival were slim. Looking for Vergil would leave her exposed and vulnerable, and she wasn’t so foolish as to imagine she could fight off the horde. This was likely her last chance to talk to Dante, the last words he’d ever hear from his mother. If he survived, what would he need to know? What did she need to tell him?

She chose her words with care and purpose. Never had they been so important.

“I know this is hard. You must listen to me. Be a big boy… A man, huh? If I don’t return, you must run. By yourself, alone. You must change your name. Forget your past and start a new life as someone else. A new beginning.”

It broke her heart to see the confusion and abject despair in his eyes. She wished with everything she had that she could promise him everything would be alright, but the words stuck on her tongue. Dante was too smart to believe empty reassurance anyway; it would be a waste of what little time she had left.

She closed the closet doors and ran. Vergil had to be close; she needed to find him and hide him, too.

“Vergil? Where are you, Vergil?”

The stairs were gone, consumed by fire. If he was downstairs, he was on his own. She prayed he was upstairs, maybe hiding already. He was a clever boy, surely he would be cautious?

Her steps quickened, heading for the master bedroom. Vergil loved looking at Sparda’s things, maybe he’d been playing when the demons attacked. The door was cracked already, he _had_ to be there! She opened it wider, hope overwhelming her judgement.

A snarling, grotesque face greeted her. She screamed as it struck, its heavy blade sinking deep into her stomach. Agony ripped through her as her blood dripped onto the carpet, her body collapsing a beat later. Tears fell from her pained gaze, her hands instinctively raising to protect her face as the demon prepared another hit.

_I’m going to die. Dante, be safe! Vergil, run! Don’t let them catch you! I love you!_

The demon lunged and metal bit straight through her raised forearms to slice into her pale neck. She choked on copper and stared at her severed hands, idly mourning the loss of her ability to play piano as her last breath escaped her.

_Please… be safe… my sweet boys._

She closed her eyes and knew nothing more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your time, I appreciate you reading my work! You guys are amazing <3 <3 <3
> 
> If anyone's interested, here's a link to the Whumptober page on tumblr - https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/
> 
> The full prompt list is here - https://whumptober2019.tumblr.com/post/187785964678/whumptober2019-october-approaches-and-so-does
> 
> See you next time!


	3. Fire and Ice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Number 3, Delirium. Also included are alternate prompts 2, 3, and 9 (broken voice, fever, and hiding). Featuring Dante and Vergil.

Dante sighed and grabbed the bags of take out from the passenger seat. Tubs of liquid so hot they would’ve burned anyone without his heritage sloshed as he headed to the front door, heavy containers of meat and veggies in the second bag. Pho wasn’t his favorite, but it wasn’t too bad with enough hoisin.

“Vergil, I’m back!” he called, dropping his keys on the table.

Silence greeted him and his lips twisted into a frown. Vergil wasn’t doing well; a rare strain of flu forced him to stay in bed for the last few days. His fever was over one hundred degrees that morning and he hadn’t been able to keep any food down. Hopefully the pho would do the trick, but Dante was worried.

He set the food on his desk and trotted to the staircase, taking the steps two at a time as he called his brother’s name again. As before, there was no response.

_Damnit, Verge… answer me, will ya?_

A deep thud quickened his steps. _That_ couldn’t be a good sign. His heart twisted in concern as he reached his brother’s door and knocked.

“Vergil, you okay in there?”

Nothing.

_Shit._

He tried the handle. It was locked.

“Let me in, douchebag!”

A second heavy thud was the only reply. Dante cursed under his breath and pounded on the door once more, by now unsurprised by the lack of response. He stepped back and considered his options.

Shooting the handle or breaking down the damned thing entirely wouldn’t be difficult; he had no clue where the master key was. What a mess. He growled in annoyance and tried one last time.

“If you don’t unlock the door, I’m breaking it!”

All he heard was his own breathing. The threat of property damage always got a response in the past; something had to be terribly wrong. What if Vergil wasn’t answering because he couldn’t? What if his fever was worse? How high did it need to be to be dangerous? The man in red didn’t know and it scared him all the more for its ominous mystery.

Dante took a deep breath and shifted, his skin erupting in tough armor and flashing to red and black. Leathery wings sprouted from his shoulders and the taste of ash filled his mouth. He growled and stepped back to the opposite wall, bracing his claws in the carpet.

The door crumpled at his bull rush, splinters of wood scattering across the room. He shifted back the second the clattering ended with a deep exhalation, sapphire eyes already scanning the room for a familiar head of swept back hair.

His jaw dropped at the state of the room. Books lied on every available surface, some still open as if forgotten partway through reading. Piles of dirty clothing were heaped by the closet, empty glasses on the headboard. Tangled sheets covered the normally pristine bed, pillows arranged in a haphazard pattern. It smelled of sweat and sickness.

Never had he seen the room in such disarray.

_But where’s Vergil?_

He checked all the familiar spots; the chair by the window, the desk by the bedside, that patch of carpet Vergil paced upon whenever his mind needed to work. With every vacant space, his worry grew. He’d never needed to take care of anyone but himself, so the concept still felt strange, but his brother wasn’t well. He couldn’t take care of himself.

“Vergil?”

A miniscule rattle drew his gaze to the closet. Why in the world would he be in _there? _

It didn’t matter. It was his only hint.

The closet opened with a creak of complaint. Panting breaths echoed in the air and as Dante’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, his heart fell to the floor. There was Vergil, knees at his chin and arms wrapped around them. Yamato lied beside him, within easy reach but his brother didn’t seem aware of it. His eyes were wide open, vacantly staring at the opposing wall as if it held the secrets of the universe.

“Aw, shit, Verge… c’mere.”

Dante tugged at his twin’s arm, his eyes widening as it limply dropped to the floor. Whatever was happening in the other man’s mind must be intense, for him to be lacking his usual resistance. He crouched down and shuffled closer to feel his forehead, recoiling as it scorched him.

_Fuck. I gotta cool him down somehow…_

He retreated to douse a towel with cool water, bringing it to his brother’s boiling flesh upon his return. Steam rose from where cloth met skin, a sizzling noise accompanying every dab. The towel didn’t last long; within minutes it was dry and he tossed it aside with a scowl.

“I’m gonna move you, it’d be nice if you didn’t stab me,” he grumbled. He doubted Vergil heard him, but it couldn’t hurt.

Dante grasped his brother’s shoulders firmly, grunting as he dragged the man from his dark hiding place. His empty look didn’t shift as he heaved him into a fireman’s carry and headed for the bathroom. A soft exhalation was the only signal of Vergil’s continued incoherence as Dante carefully set him on the cold tile, doing his best to avoid burning his fingers.

_Demon flu, maybe? Is that a thing? I swear if I catch this, I’m gonna be pissed._

Dante snorted. It was probably too late for that. He shook his head and started the bath, turning the dial completely to the cold side. Now for the _really _fun part.

It took several minutes of curses and singed fingers, but finally Vergil was left in only his briefs. No matter how sick he got, there was no way in hell Dante was taking off his brother’s underwear. He had his limits.

“All right, this would be way easier if you helped me out,” he said. As expected, Vergil didn’t respond.

Dante sighed and covered his hands with a towel. It wasn’t much, but hopefully it would protect him from the worst of it. If not, he’d heal in a few minutes, but pain never got more fun. He braced himself and grappled Vergil into the cool water, splashing an absurd amount over the edge with his efforts.

Once his brother was settled, Dante took a perch on the toilet. Steam rose from the water, the area around his hands and feet reaching a low boil. The red-clad man added more water every time Vergil’s heat boiled too much away, staying by his side for hours and waiting for any change.

He jumped when Vergil spoke at last.

“It… it cannot be…”

_The fuck is he yammering about?_

Icy eyes darted around the bathroom, landing at last on Dante’s face. He offered a sheepish grin but his twin only snarled in return. A haze of confusion still clouded his expression.

“Im- impossible. She’s _dead!”_

Lithe but powerful arms slashed at the empty air, attacking an invisible foe. Dante dodged with practiced ease.

“Vergil! It’s me, calm down!”

“Begone, I will not succumb to trickery!”

More water sprayed onto the tile as Vergil thrashed. His hands cracked against the wall and Dante lunged forward, grabbing his skull before it followed suit. He bit his lip and held on as his brother writhed, battling the demons of his mind.

_Damnit, quit freaking out!_

By the time Vergil calmed, Dante’s arms were aching from holding his head for so long. Two of Vergil’s fingers splayed at unnatural angles and bruises marked him in several spots. Blue met blue as the two brothers’ eyes locked.

“D- Dante?”

“Hey, Verge,” he replied, lowering his sore limbs. Never had he heard Vergil sound so broken, his voice a low croak. “You back now?”

The elder Sparda glanced at the marks lining his arms, taking in his injuries with a disapproving sneer. He cradled his broken fingers and closed his eyes. “I think so.”

Dante leaned back, stretching his shoulders. “Good. You uh, ya had me worried for a sec.”

The man in the bathtub scoffed. “I didn’t realize you had the _capacity_ for such things.”

He snorted. Vergil _must_ be feeling better. A cautious hand went to check his temperature by shoving his shoulder; it felt warm still, but far less so. Progress.

“You should’ve heard the crap you were saying.”

Vergil flinched, his eyes lowering to stare at the water. The expression of vulnerable sadness shocked Dante; his brother wasn’t prone to fits of openness. It was rare to glimpse the man beneath the stoic exterior.

“You wanna talk about it?”

Vergil leaned back, resting his head on the wall as he lowered his mangled fingers into the cold water with a deep sigh. “I imagine you’ll pester me until I do.”

Dante chuckled and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, probably.”

His brother clenched his jaw and clicked his tongue, gathering his thoughts before he spoke again. “I was in the Underworld. Mundus was coming.”

“So, you hid in the closet?”

A curt nod was the only response. Dante knew better than to prod at that wound any further. He hummed and crossed his arms, gazing thoughtfully at the ceiling. Did he have the nerve to ask? How could he _not?_

“You mentioned a woman, too. Was… was it mom?”

Vergil shook his head and muttered, “No, someone else. You didn’t know her.”

A long moment passed in silence, each brother lost in memories of those they’d lost years ago. Eventually, Vergil broke the spell.

“Don’t you have better things to do than sit here and bother me?”

“Not really. But if you leave the door unlocked I’ll go,” Dante replied.

Another curt nod. “Agreed.”

The legendary devil hunter grunted as he rose, his tired body complaining after sitting in the same position for so long. He yawned and stretched, cracking his sternum as he walked away. Halfway out the door, he paused.

“There’s pho, if you’re hungry. Don’t drown.”

A final scoff was his answer and he smirked as he clicked the door closed. Only time would tell if the worst of Vergil’s illness was over. The thought of repeating the last few hours made him cringe. Stripping his twin once was enough, thank you _very_ much.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos and dropping a comment. You guys are amazing! 
> 
> The next prompt is "Human Shield", should be interesting!


	4. Protector

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 4, Human Shield featuring Nero and Kyrie. Also included are alternate prompts 13 (Breathless) and 15 (Field Medicine).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick warning for descriptions of injury and mentions of gore. Enjoy!

Nero’s scaled hand held hers in an iron grip, tugging her through the maze of Fortuna’s streets. He moved so quickly she could barely breathe, gasping for air at every turn. There was no other option, not with the horde slaying without discrimination on every side.

“Faster, Kyrie! Come on!”

Terrified eyes met his determined blue and she managed a nod, forcing her legs to pump with yet more speed. They were approaching fifth street, the edge of downtown. Only a few more blocks, she could make it.

She _had_ to.

Chattering proboscis rattled through the smoke-laden air and the first licking flames began their consumption of a nearby shop. Glass littered the courtyard and car alarms echoed against the stone buildings. The screams of those unfortunate enough to be caught had thankfully grown less frequent as they fled the epicenter of the attack.

It was a Tuesday.

A sudden thrumming overhead broke her scattered thoughts as a flock of winged demons descended from on high. The glow of Nero’s arm brightened as they approached and he cursed as they formed a circle around them; a trap. They hissed and Kyrie smelled the acrid tang of acid as they prepared to attack with hive-like unity.

Nero tackled her to the ground in a painfully rushed motion. Cobblestone pressed against her spine as he laid himself over her, protecting her with his own flesh as the acid spewed forth from a dozen grotesque mouths. He howled in agony but didn’t budge, taking every drop.

_“Nero!”_ she cried, tears sliding down her temples.

His sizzling flesh smelled like charred brisket. He was trembling over her, jaw tight enough to crack his molars. This couldn’t be happening; she couldn’t accept it. No way. He was too strong to die like this, facedown in a street.

_Not like this! **Please,** not like this!_

The rain of acid stopped, the demons capacity mercifully short. An enraged growl rumbled through the chest above her and blue eyes flashed in fury.

“Stay down,” he commanded.

Kyrie closed her eyes as the ring of steel and the rustle of leather signaled his attack. A roar of defiance mixed with screeches of pain; a sickening wet crunch followed quickly by the acrid stench of demon blood. She felt something wet and warm puddle around her shoulder and flinched.

More clicks and clangs, a series of sharp squelches. Nero’s snarls.

And then, silence.

She didn’t dare breathe, in case it somehow broke the spell. A click of metal on stone and heavy panting were the only things she hard aside from a soft brush of wind.

“Kyrie… it’s okay.”

Dark eyelashes damp with terror lifted from her cheekbones as she opened her eyes, her wide pupils shooting straight to his face. Blood dotted his forehead, streaks of it in his pale hair as he kneeled, resting his weight on Red Queen.

She was by his side in an instant. His back was a mess of melted leather and bubbling flesh, burns covering his shoulder blades. Her heart clenched at the sight.

_He must be in so much pain._

Muscles in her throat bobbed as she swallowed her own fear and steeled her frayed nerves. Delicate fingers gathered the hem of her shirt and tugged, adrenaline-fueled strength allowing her to rip the fabric with ease. Portions were soaked in demonic gristle, but it would do for now.

“Here, let me…”

There wasn’t much time; the area was too dangerous to linger long. She dabbed at the remaining acid and cringed when Nero flinched away from her touch. Her free hand went to his shoulder for a soft squeeze and he managed a pained smile. It was enough to ease the tightness in her chest.

“Thanks,” he murmured.

She hummed and refocused on his back, intent on doing everything in her power to help ease his pain. After what he’d endured, he needed it. How he kept his body from in place, shielding her from the attack…

_He would have died for me._

It broke her heart. To imagine a life without Nero in it made her tremble. They weren’t even safe yet; it could still happen. She might still lose him.

“We should keep moving,” she said. “Can you keep going?”

Resolve tightened his features and he met her eyes with flames dancing in his own. The glow of his scaled arm cast strange shadows over his face as he nodded, grunting as he rose to his feet.

“Absolutely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Next prompt is Gunpoint...


	5. Gunpoint

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Featuring Nico, a story about the first time she held a gun and a glimpse into her past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to wait for the fifth, but honestly? I'm too impatient for that crap. <3 So, here's day five, Gunpoint.
> 
> Warnings for violence and descriptions of intense fear.

Nico would never forget the first time she held a gun. It was a Heckler and Koch HK45, not one of her grandmother’s custom builds but a basic and bland model. Nothing fancy, just what her uncle kept in his nightstand for protection.

A beautiful piece.

She hadn’t been looking for it. Before that day, she never imagined he owned a firearm. All she needed was a battery to replace the dead one in the tv remote. She’d checked every drawer in the kitchen, every nook and cranny of the living room and office. This was her last hope, or she’d have to change the channel manually.

_Gross._

Yet the sight of the polished metal derailed her plans. It called to her, begging for her touch. Something about the weapon resonated with her very soul and she lacked the will power to ignore it. The battery could keep for a while.

Trembling fingertips slid over the device, feeling its weight and structure. It sent chills up her spine and she couldn’t help the soft smile from crossing her lips as she lifted it, angling the barrel to catch the dim light from above. It glinted and flashed, as if it were celebrating her presence.

She was eight years old.

Guns weren’t unfamiliar to her, not with _her_ family. Papa Rock loved telling stories about Granny Nell and her smithing days, speaking with reverence and pride of her accomplishments. It made Nico jealous sometimes; she wanted Papa to talk about _her_ that way, too. Not to say he didn’t already, not even close.

But it always rang with the tone of an adult talking to a child. Over-exaggerated, encouraging and supportive but not _truly _impressed. Not _false, _just… _something._

Her hands shifted on the grip. It wasn’t too heavy, but she struggled to maintain a solid grasp even _with _the finger grooves. Someday, it would fit in her palms with ease.

She couldn’t wait.

That was four years ago.

Uncle Terry’s shouts of alarm when he found her with his loaded gun _still_ made her roll her eyes. Punishment was harsh; she knew better than to play with guns, what was she _thinking?_ Blah, blah, blah. Whatever, as long as she got to touch it again.

But Papa Rock was ruthless. Not once since that day had he allowed her to handle a weapon. It was _killing_ her, especially when he tried to placate her misery with a damned air rifle.

_Ridiculous._

He encouraged her other interests, but nothing could quench her thirst to tinker with whatever pistol was available. She begged and pleaded and promised, yet his resolve never wavered. Not until she was ready, he said. A few more years, he swore. How was _he_ supposed to know when she was ready, anyway? Why did _he_ get to make that call?

_I’ve been ready for years!_

Nico growled and spat out her toothpaste. She wasn’t doing herself any favors by dwelling on it; better to think about something else. As much as it sucked, it was out of her hands. Papa Rock wasn’t one to change his mind, especially not when she whined about it. Either he’d let her near a gun or she’d turn eighteen and no longer need permission.

She rinsed away the dregs and grinned at the mirror, checking for any glaring scuzz on her teeth in between her braces. _Another_ thing she couldn’t wait to grow out of…

Satisfied, she headed to bed.

Well, it was more of a sofa, but that wasn’t the point.

“G’night, Uncle Terry!” she called as she passed his closed bedroom door. A grunted response was all she received, but that was normal.

Whenever Papa Rock left town for work, she stayed with him. He kept his bedroom locked now, probably on Papa’s orders otherwise she would’ve been in his nightstand faster than a knife fight in a phone booth. Besides that, he pretty much gave her free reign.

She moved the disemboweled toaster she’d been working on earlier to the floor and slid between the sheets with a yawn. It was black as pitch outside and insects chirped through the open window, the still-humid air only just starting to be bearable. A typical summer evening, all things considered.

Then the front door exploded.

Nico jumped, her eyes shooting wide as a figure strode through the void. She couldn’t see much in the dark, but the unmistakable clack of a shotgun being loaded echoed in the heavy air.

_“TERRY!”_

_What in the hell is going on?_

The figure stepped forward and Nico held her breath. Whoever it was seemed to know their way around the small home, easily avoiding the furniture as they approached her uncle’s bedroom. Terror flooded her mind as she watched the intruder level the gun.

_“GIT YOUR SORRY ASS OUT HERE!”_

The snarling sounded female. Who _was_ this, and why did she wanna shoot her uncle? It made no sense; he’d never mentioned a pissed off lady. What the hell did he _do?_

His door cracked open to reveal the barrel of that same Heckler and Koch from so long ago. She recognized it easily as the slide drew back, bringing a round into the chamber. The regular grumble of his voice was replaced with resigned exhaustion as he spoke.

“What the _hell_ d’you want, Tara?”

Now was her chance, while the woman was distracted. She swallowed her fear and forced her body to move, trying to minimize the noise she made but the sheets still betrayed her as she moved to the floor. She cursed internally and prayed, but it was too late. The woman turned.

“Who’s there!? Show yourself!”

A pair of barrels leveled at roughly her position. Her heart beat faster than a hummingbird’s wings, her palms as slick as a greased hog. What should she do? Stay hidden and hope nothing hit her? Reveal herself and risk this stranger’s wrath? Either way, it was a risk.

_I might die tonight._

The column of her throat twitched at the realization. If only she had a gun of her own! She’d cut the stranger’s tail for sure! Damn Papa Rock, _damn_ him and his _stupid _rules!

“Ya got till the count of three! One…”

Her lungs refused to inflate and her legs stubbornly locked tight. Was there anything in between her and the shotgun? Could she duck behind the couch in time? She’d never been the fastest, but maybe just this once…

“Two…”

A click. She was running out of time. Her head spun and her vision swam as she slowly inhaled.

“Thr-“

Her hands flew into the air, palms open and submissive. They trembled as she licked her lips. “Okay, okay! I’m comin’ out!”

The stranger hummed and lowered the shotgun, but not by much. Drops of sweat slid from Nico’s brow and under her arms. She closed her eyes and ordered her body to rise, bracing for the worst.

“Who the _fuck_ are you? Hit the damned light, will ya?”

A moment later, she cringed as rays of illumination flooded the room. Her eyes flew to the floor to avoid the worst of it.

“I’m N- Nicoletta Goldstein, Terry’s niece.”

A sharp clatter. Nico’s eyes stole a peek at the woman to see the shotgun raised once more, pointed right at her face. The hands gripping the weapon were solid, not a shake to be seen as if to contrast her own trembling.

A warm puddle leaked from between her legs to stain her pajamas.

_I’m gonna die! Oh my god, I’m actually gonna die!_

Enraged eyes locked with her terrified gaze. Her vision blurred, the first tear spilling free as she choked on a sob.

“P- please! I’m just a kid!” she begged. The admission of her youth sent daggers into Nico’s belly.

_Why doesn’t Terry stop her!? Aren’t grown ups supposed to do that kind of thing?_

“Well, _Nicoletta Goldstein, _you better hope your pig of an uncle’s got some _damn good explanations!”_

A thin hand left the shotgun to push hair from the woman’s eyes. Her features weren’t unpleasant, even with rage twisting them. What could she _possibly_ want to kill Uncle Terry for?

“Leave her outta this! Our shit’s between you and me, she’s got nothing to do with it!” his voice cried.

“Don’t you _dare_ tell me what to do, shit brain! All I wanna hear from you is a damned apology!”

Blood pounded in Nico’s ears. She couldn’t hear the cicada’s anymore, only the sound of wind. Her chest heaved as she choked on dread, a metallic tang rising in her throat. What she wouldn’t give to have more time.

_There’s still so much I haven’t done!_

It wasn’t fair! She hadn’t done anything wrong, why did _she_ have to pay the price for her uncle? If there was any justice in the world, their positions would be switched. She’d have the gun and he’d be out here soaked in his own piss and drowning in terror. By all rights, he deserved it!

“Here’s my apology, you skanky bitch.”

A sound like thunder split the air as Terry pulled the trigger. With a flash and a smell of gunpowder, his shot struck home in the woman’s shoulder. She grunted and angled her shotgun at the bedroom door, squeezing the trigger and staggering back from the recoil. Pellets blasted into the wood, ripping holes in some places on their path of death.

_Shit, shit, shit! What the fuck! I gotta move!_

Nico didn’t hesitate, ducking low and darting behind the massive bookcase against the wall. It was a deep one, enough so that she was mostly shielded if she pressed into the wall hard enough. Hopefully, it would be enough.

Another thunderous crack; the .45. Terry was still alive, still fighting.

She closed her eyes and let the tears flow as the shotgun fired, flinching at the impact of pellets on wood. If this went on much longer, she’d learn what it sounded like when they struck flesh.

A string of violent expletives came from the woman as she ducked behind the couch to reload. Nico had mere seconds to make her move and she growled, sending every ounce of pent up rage and frustration to her legs, but they refused to move. Her body was in open rebellion. It wouldn’t let her leave the safety of her nook, no matter how much she wanted to.

_Damnit, come **on!** You **coward**, Nico!_

It was too late. The woman stood tall and aimed once again at what remained of Terry’s bedroom door, cackling as she fired. A massive section of wood splintered away and she advanced, preparing her next shot to spray through the gap.

_“DIE, YOU BASTA-“_

The .45 fired. Gurgles replaced words and a heavy thud marked the woman falling to her knees, mere inches from the door. Her muddy eyes met Nico’s and blood leaked from the fresh hole in her neck, a steady river too powerful to overcome. She shifted her shotgun and aimed, determined to get what she came for.

_Just **die**, won’t ya?! Haven’t you done enough!?_

Her hand squeezed and another round of pellets sprayed forth to decorate the door. Several went straight through and lodged into whatever waited beyond.

The shotgun clattered to the floor, followed shortly by the woman. Her head landed sideways, and Nico watched in stupefied horror as the light in her eyes flickered out. The rage seeped away as her features went slack, a soft exhalation stirring the still pooling blood beneath her.

_It’s over. _

Nico’s knees struck the hardwood as she collapsed. She couldn’t look away from the woman’s face as she broke down, staring at death as her body recovered from the cocktail of terror and shifted to exhausted relief. Never had she been more thankful to breathe, to be able to sob and shake with sweet, _sweet_ life.

“Nico…”

_Shit, I forgot about Terry!_

She scrambled to her feet and peered through the gap made from the shotgun blasts. All that met her gaze was the bedspread, dotted with splinters and torn to shreds.

“Is she… is she _dead?”_

She hiccupped and glanced back to check, just in case. “Yeah, I- I think so.”

A pained grunt and the door opened. There stood Terry, covered in small cuts and scraps of wood, a scarlet stain growing on his calf, but _alive. _

“You all right, string bean?”

She choked on a laugh. No, she was _not_ all right. Some lady just _died_ in front of her after pointing a gun at her face and shooting the shit out of her uncle’s house.

But she wasn’t injured, so instead she nodded.

A warm hand pulled her into a hug. “You did good.”

This time she couldn’t hold back her manic snort. “I didn’t _do_ anything, I just stood there and _hid!”_

“Yeah, I know. You didn’t get yourself killed, so… you did good.”

She wiped away hysterical tears and sniffled. Her mind already whirled with questions, but she was too tired to ask a single one. It’d keep.

She helped Terry to the couch just as the first flashing lights lit the room in red and blue. He grimaced as a voice outside demanded he open the door and surrender, an apology in his familiar eyes as he hollered back the basics of what happened.

“Hands on the windowsill! Both of you!”

_Are you kidding me? I just wanna sleep! Can’t it keep?_

Apparently not. The questions didn’t stop for what felt like years. Nico stopped paying attention after a while, too dazed to care anymore. She stared at the body as someone checked her for wounds. Vacant eyes were all that remained of the woman who made her piss herself in terror. Was that _really_ all that got left behind when you died?

“Nico! Nicoletta Goldstein!”

She snapped to attention. A young man in blue held out a phone with a kind smile; no danger.

“We got a hold of your daddy, he wants to talk to ya.”

_Papa Rock… I wish he was here._

“Hello?”

_“Nico! Are you all right? Tell me what happened.”_

She shifted her weight and pulled at the edges of a blanket someone left over her shoulders. “I’m fine. Just tired. Can I tell ya later? I’m…”

_“Sure, sure… later. I’m coming back, I’ll be there in a few hours.”_

A long pause. She didn’t have the energy to break the silence.

_“Once you’re feeling up to it, I think it’s time. You’re ready.”_

She stifled a yawn. “For what?”

_“To learn to shoot. When you feel up to it, that is.”_

She almost laughed. If he’d said those words a few short hours ago, she would’ve screamed with joy and excitement. Now, she felt nothing. That probably wasn’t a good thing, but she didn’t care. For now, it was enough to be alive. The rest?

It’d keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one still doesn't feel quite right but I can't figure out why. Oh well!
> 
> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos and dropping a few words! 
> 
> Next chapter - Dragged away, featuring Dante.


	6. Dragged Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day six with the prompt Dragged Away, featuring Dante. Also covered is the alternate prompt Dehydration.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another installment of pain. This one covers what happened to Dante after Eva hid him in the closet.
> 
> Warnings for the usual, violence and bloodshed.

The closet became his prison. Every moment that passed with him still tucked away amongst the linens dragged on, every minute he remained idle an eternity. He grew so accustomed to the smoke-laden air he didn’t even cough on it anymore. A tingle spread from his fingertips, an itch to wrap his fingers over the hilt of his father’s blade and cut down those who dared to attack his family consuming his mind.

Yet even after the searing heat of flames began to fade, he didn’t dare to leave. A few more minutes, then Eva would come back with Vergil and everything would be okay. He didn’t need to be worried, just patient. It was only a matter of time.

Not once did Dante allow himself to imagine his mother was already dead.

She was too strong. Nothing could stop her when it came to her family, she’d proven that more than once already. Any second, he’d hear her calming voice calling his name. He needed to be ready, Vergil would be with her and he didn’t want his twin to see his worry. No doubt he’d tease him about it later.

Dante licked his lips. After so many hours exposed to the intense heat, they were cracked and dry. His tongue felt bigger than usual, swollen as he stowed it safely in his tightly closed mouth. A small whimper escaped him as he jostled his loose tooth.

_Stupid, I need to stay quiet! Mom knows where I am, there’s no reason to make noise. She’ll be back once it’s safe._

But the damage was done. A voice called out to him from nearby, but it was unfamiliar. Dante braced himself to fight, squaring his shoulders and snarling as the closet door slid open. He would _not_ abandon his spot, not until his mother returned for him. Her face alone would keep him from shredding whatever waited outside his tiny jail.

The face that greeted him was not his mothers, but a youthful man in heavy yellow cloth. A fireman.

“Hey, it’s okay. I’ve got you,” the stranger said.

Gloved hands reached for him as a kind smile shaped the man’s features. Dante backed away, retreating as far into the small closet as he could. He remembered his father’s words all too well.

_“Trust no one. There are those who would do you great harm for nothing more than the crime of existing.”_

“S- stay back!”

The hands retreated as an expression of annoyance replaced the welcoming smile of moments before. A deep sigh slipped from those unfamiliar lips and the man crouched down to meet Dante’s eyes.

“Kid, come on. The fire’s out, but the building isn’t safe. We gotta go.”

_No! Not until mom comes back!_

He bared his teeth.

The fireman huffed and sat down fully. For the first time Dante saw what remained of his home as his shoulders lowered.

Black soot stained the walls. Sections of plaster were missing, consumed by the blaze. Charred remnants of his family’s furniture littered the area, nothing but scraps left behind.

_There’s supposed to be a bookshelf there._

Blackened husks were all that remained of the books Vergil so adored. Dante cringed at the idea of telling his brother of the loss, but with Eva there it wouldn’t be too bad. Any moment, she’d appear with his twin.

Unless the idiot in yellow had his way.

_I can’t leave; how would she find me?_

“No. I’m not going,” Dante croaked.

“Why not?” was the fireman’s reply.

Blue met brown in a contest of will. Dante didn’t blink, only narrowing his gaze further until the dumbass looked away. He shouldn’t have to explain. Who _was _this asshole, anyway? Who did he think he was, coming in here and trying to get him to leave his family behind?

_Nothing_ mattered more than family.

A crackle sounded from the stranger’s waist, a walkie talkie signaling something. By the way the man’s face shifted, it was something bad.

“Look, there’s no time for this. Either you come out on your own or I’m forcing you. Your choice.”

Dante growled and balled his fists, daring the man to even try. After the hours spent learning from his father, he held no doubt that he could kick this moron’s ass if push came to shove. For all he knew, the guy was a demon in disguise. It was too much of a risk to go willingly, he had no choice but to fight.

His family was counting on him.

“What’s your name, kid? I’m Jakob.”

His brows rose in surprise. Shouldn’t those after him and his family know his name already? Was he only looking for confirmation?

A voice echoed through the tinny speaker of his walkie talkie, a second warning Dante barely noticed. He kept his eyes locked on the stranger as he replied, mindful of the danger he faced even though the man seemed harmless. Demons were wily, and he’d be damned before he trusted someone without proof of their humanity.

_“Trust is earned, not given.”_

Jakob’s hands reached for him again, and he deftly sidestepped the man’s grasp.

“Damnit, kid, the house is coming apart!”

“I’m not moving until my mother gets here!”

A look of sympathy twisted the fireman’s features and for a moment Dante thought he was home free.

In the next instant he was proven wring as fingers wrapped around his wrists. He thrashed, desperate to break free as the man pulled him out of the closet and into the remains of his home. Any moment, Eva would arrive. She’d worry if he was gone, and he _hated _making her worry.

“No! Let me go!”

Lengthy arms pinned his writhing body into submission as Jakob grunted, hefting him into a position on his hip. Dante squirmed, not letting up for an instant as the man stood and headed for the stairwell.

Or what was left of it.

“Mom! Vergil! Where are you!?”

There was no answer. They must have needed to leave to find safety; once he was free of this shithead he could start looking for them. He kept wriggling as Jakob carried him through the house, but when they passed the living room he froze.

A flash of blond. A splatter of red.

_“MOM!”_

Dante bucked like a bull, growling at the idiot who refused to let him go until the man released him. He flew to the living room. His heart was racing, terror and denial mixing in his veins as he slid to a stop by the side of the blond-haired corpse.

_No, no, no! It can’t be her, someone else wandered in! No way! _

Pale hair covered her face. Dante ignored the fact that the body wore the same clothing his mother had on when she hid him, blocking out the reality as best he could. He refused to acknowledge even the possibility that it was her, she was fine! Probably waiting for him with Vergil nearby.

Deep slashes marked the body, white bone peeking through the gristle of her abdomen. Stubs capped her forearms, her hands a few feet away in a pool of scorched crimson. Never had Dante smelled human remains before and he swallowed the bile rising in his throat. It wasn’t her; it _couldn’t _be.

But he needed to be sure.

Sweaty palms brushed aside the locks of honey, revealing the face of his mother. Blood leaked from her lips, agony encrusted on her fine features. Somewhere far away, an inhuman wail of torturous pain echoed but Dante barely noticed.

He was too consumed by the cruel shards of glass ripping into his heart.

His throat was too tight; air refused to reach his lungs.

Hot trails of saltwater dripped from his incoherent eyes, the last dregs of hydration vanishing in his grief but he didn’t care.

White hair shifted to cover his agonized expression as he bowed forward, cradling his mother in his small arms.

Nothing had ever hurt so much, nor would it in the years to come.

He fought the pawing hands trying to drag him away with everything he had left, but there wasn’t much left to give. Screams tore his vocal cords as the firefighters tore him from his mother for the last time; never again would he feel her soft hands or hear her kind voice. She wouldn’t be there when he became a man, nor when he first cared for someone special. She’d never meet a grandchild or even a partner of his, never be able to give him her approval or rejection.

_First dad disappeared, now mom is dead! _

He scrabbled at the hard wood floors as he was dragged away. Too many hands to fight tugged at him and he thrashed on instinct alone, too focused on his loss to pay attention. His father would be furious, but that didn’t matter right now.

Nothing did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed :)
> 
> Thank you, as always, for riding this pain train with me. I horde your kudos and words like treasure.
> 
> Next chapter - Isolation, featuring our beloved poet.


	7. Isolation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day seven with the prompt of Isolation, featuring our favorite goth boi. Also included here is the alternate prompt, Touch-Starved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, friends! Have another dose of agony. Weird, I don't think this one needs any warnings for once... o.O

The void grew slowly. Feelings are sneaky sometimes, the bastards.

For the first week, V spent most of his time aiding the locals in the evacuation effort. Numerous convoys out of Red Grave City came under attack, and he did his best to repel the demons wherever possible. Every soul that made it out was one less for Urizen to consume, after all. One less sacrifice to his other half’s moronic plan.

_One more tic that may lead to victory._

The gratitude of the masses was a bit much, though. Too many strangers trying to shake his hand or give him a teary hug. Even just a high-five grew tiresome. It was a waste of time, engaging with others. He had so little already, every second he wasted accepting meaningless gestures was another second he wasn’t working towards becoming whole.

To tarry was the height of foolishness.

Yet as time went on, the horde diminished.

Not the _demonic_ horde; the other one. _Normal_ people.

The handshakes, hugs, high-fives and fist bumps diminished and with it, the void started its slow advance into his spirit. He ignored it and focused on helping the few who remained, conversing with Griffon when his boredom outpaced his impatience. The bird wasn’t a terrible conversationalist, but he tended to stray into old habits and resort to name calling.

Shadow and Nightmare didn’t help much. There was only so much one could communicate through roars and rockslides. He craved a more meaningful conversation, something to stimulate his idle mind and spark his flagging enthusiasm. Banter and friendship, even just in passing.

_Even the brief sampling of it left me wanting more. Is this what it means to be human, to desire the presence of another?_

_No wonder Vergil discarded it._

As the sun rose for the seventeenth time since his arrival, he sighed. It had been at least three days since he saw another living soul; only the grotesque husks still claimed residency in the mutilated city. The void in his heart was gaining power, tugging at him to find companionship and kindred folk but there were none to be found.

Unless he wanted to chat with corpses, that is.

Griffon was becoming more obnoxious by the hour and he hadn’t bothered to speak to the most recent trio of survivors. Like most, they were too stunned to be alive to offer any valuable dialogue. Surely it hadn’t been a week since he last spoken. Perhaps he ought to recite something, keep himself from forgetting how?

He cleared his throat and retrieved his book, selecting a passage at random.

** _“They clothed me in the clothes of death, and taught me to sing the notes of woe.”_ **

His voice cracked, more than once.

On the bright side, there was no one nearby to hear it. Small mercies.

With another few lines, his normal lilting tone returned. Why it mattered, he wasn’t entirely sure. All he knew was it helped to stave off the aching pain that grew with every tick of time passing. He found his thoughts drifted to painful areas more often, remembering all those who left him behind in the past. If so many people came to the same conclusion, that he wasn’t worth anything, how could he protest?

The void hummed its approval. The stabbing sensation in his chest almost stopped him in his tracks.

Loneliness wasn’t a new experience for him, but in the past his demonic nature kept such pointless emotions at bay. If it didn’t contribute to his growth, he ignored it. Nothing mattered except the accumulation of more power.

Echoes of that urge still rattled in his mind. Relics of the past. All he could do now was hold off catastrophe until Nero was ready. The boy might not be strong enough, but without Dante he was out of options. Perhaps fate would smile on him, _just_ this once.

Doubtful. Fate is a petty bitch.

Hours passed with little consequence. He found no survivors and dispatched any demon stupid enough to attack him with brutal efficiency. With every slain foe came a meager sense of superiority, one far too easy to dash if he encountered a more powerful enemy. After every battle, the silence returned and with it, the ache.

It grew so strong even a pathetic Empusa made him slump in relief.

Eventually the sky shifted, displaying a multitude of warm tones as the sun dipped below the horizon. It was oddly beautiful to see the shades coalesce around the damned Qlipoth, almost as if a painter was experimenting on the canvas of reality. A simple pleasure.

_How many sunsets will I witness before I run out of time?_

A pang of aching solitude forced his eyes away, back to what mattered. Shelter.

He chose an industrial facility to spend the night, clearing off a rare intact pallet to use as his bed. Rest was _another_ thing he despised; to spend so many hours unconscious when there was so much to do and so little time… If his body didn’t force him to sleep, he never would.

Perhaps if someone rested at his side, it would be more bearable.

Now _there_ was a thought that didn’t merit further exploration.

He shifted onto his stomach, utilizing an arm as a pillow. The warmth of his hand on his cheek sent a pulse of… _something _racing through his veins. A soft sigh slipped past his lips and he glared at the nearest piece of machinery as if it was to blame.

Certain aspects of his being were less than pleasant to dwell on. Mainly, the fact that he was everything within Vergil that wasn’t worthy of being preserved. He was a conglomeration of every flaw and shortcoming, every foolish impulse and unnecessary desire. The detritus of a man, never to become fully whole. The excess.

However…

** _“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”_ **

He smirked. The line took on a new meaning, considering his situation. His road would lead to a higher understanding, in the end. Who could say, maybe after he was united with Urizen he would at last find peace?

_No. I am not destined for such things._

Another thought lacking any value. It wasn’t _wrong_, but dwelling on it would do nothing to aid him.

_What shall I dwell on instead?_

His thumb twitched against his jaw and another unfamiliar bolt of energy coursed through him, sending his nerves jangling. Was he _truly_ that isolated, that even his own touch sparked a reaction? It wasn’t unthinkable, considering how long he’d been without company. Dark brows met and he deliberately stroked his cheek to test the theory.

Apparently so.

_Foolishness._

A low growl ricocheted up his chest and he shifted again. He forced his limbs to splay apart to lessen the risk of accidentally causing more reactions and closed his eyes. The embrace of oblivion wasn’t far, it never was. It was waiting for him, beckoning him closer every moment.

The void purred as he fell into slumber.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor V... I considered ending this on a much smuttier note, but it didn't feel right. 
> 
> As always, my endless gratitude to you for reading, leaving kudos and leaving me a comment. You guys make my day!
> 
> Next chapter - Stab Wound featuring Morrison


	8. Stab Wound

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day eight with the prompt Stab Wound. Featuring Morrison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this one has me super jazzed. I haven't seen anything that focuses on Morrison, so I though he deserved a little attention. The structure of this is based (loosely) on the in-game letters he wrote. Bear in mind I have not seen the anime, so this is entirely based off of DMC5 Morrison. Enjoy!

Yeah, I was there. Settle in, this one’s a long story and it deserves every drop of ink on these pages. I guess I’ll start at the beginning, or the end. Depends on your perspective.

I’d seen some crazy shit in my lifetime, but that night was a whole new level of nutty. It wasn’t easy maintaining the calm façade my clients expected, but the cigar helped.

“We’ve known each other a long time…”

I stood alone, or at least unaccompanied. Strangers didn’t count, especially not the religious kooks up ahead. A few mooks in suits and ties were scattered around. I remember one fool still had his briefcase! That damn city had too many gullible idiots in it for my taste. Good for business, though.

“Ya never had this much trouble. You gonna make it through this, Dante?”

I gotta admit, he was one of a kind. No matter what challenge I gave him, he conquered it and came back for more. Most of the jobs I got were pretty straight-forward for the guy, but he never cared. As long as demons were involved, he was happy to join in. Must be a story hidden behind that smirk, but that was none of my business.

None of _your_ business, either, come to think of it.

But hey, if you really needed someone to clean up some bullshit, there was nobody better. His crew ain’t bad either, a pair of ladies with enough skill to match him on any day of the week. In a two against one, at least. That was when Nero started out, too, he got wheels so he could take jobs farther from home. Smart kid. Good for business.

That night’s special kind of madness featured a big ass tower growing right in downtown. Grey and demonic, it was over thirty stories tall and still growing. My intel, along with Dante, told me that Urizen, the Demon King, was in there and Dante’s crew was going to kick his ass. Turned out it was too late to stop his rise, so all they could do was take out the trash. Not sure what the plan was to deal with the tower, but Urizen was the higher priority.

Whatever. Any minute, Dante would come bursting out with a loud whoop and a smirk, covered in blood and stinking to high heaven. It wasn’t a matter of it, but of _when_. Nothing could beat Dante, not even a king.

I took another puff and made my way through the crowd, listening like I always do. Most folks didn’t have a goddamned clue what was going on, as I suspected. Demon sightings were rare back then. Hell, I was in my forties the first time I saw one in the flesh. I’d wager your average Tim, Dick and Harry went through their whole lives without seeing one.

As I got closer, the muttering shifted into prayer. Made sense, if you were into that kinda thing. Religious folks came to me sometimes, claiming their kid or some dear friend was possessed. They never were, but I played along. Good for business.

My eyes shot to the tower as it exploded. A woman nearby started the Lord’s Prayer and I mumbled a few words, just in case. After the shit I’d seen, it was tough to discount the idea entirely. Might as well cover my bases, you know?

Anyway.

That was about when that pile of rocks landed, my client perched on its shoulder. Nero landed beside him and the two stomped away from the tower without looking back. I had a funny feeling, like I ate some Mexican food. You know what I mean. Even now, just telling the story again, I feel it.

Fear.

I wish I had the right words to make you understand, but I ain’t no writer. This is the most I’ve put on paper in years. You better be right about this.

Anyway, Dante wasn’t with them. Neither were Lady and Trish. I thought they had a plan, maybe they were coming out on the other side, but it shook me. Never imagined Dante losing before that moment. I imagine I didn’t hide my surprise well, something I kicked myself for later on. Bad for business.

Especially with the client headed right for me.

I couldn’t stop the words from coming out. “What happened to Dante? Where’s _Dante?”_

Those two walked right past me. I could see the truth in their eyes, but I still couldn’t believe it.

“He is buying time, but… it doesn’t look good,” the client said.

I’ll never forget those next ten seconds.

Asphalt crumbled. A woman screamed. So many folks gasped it sounded like a damned gospel choir and I spun around to see the fuss. It had to be Dante. What else could it be?

Short version; it wasn’t Dante.

Long version; freaky demon spikes were popping up outta the ground, wiggling around to shake off the rubble. I counted three or four in the first block alone. They were damned ugly, all black and spiny. I saw some red mixed in, but they moved too fast for my old eyes to spot any more details. I suppose it doesn’t matter now, does it?

The spikes made their move, lunging out at the fools up front and ripping right through ‘em like tissue paper. They never stood a chance. I smelled blood and tasted metal as the crowd started howling, for real this time. People were running and shoving each other, desperate to get away as another set of spikes found their mark.

“This _can’t_ be happening… Dante _lost?”_ I remember thinking I should’ve bit my tongue, _really_ didn’t need to advertise the depth of the bullshit.

Nero, bless his soul, he started going toward the danger. Someday that kid’s gonna get himself killed trying to save a stranger, just you wait and see. That night, my client stopped him in his tracks, blocking his path with that weird-ass cane of his.

“Forget it. There’s nothing we can do. We must go.”

That guy was cold as ice, but he wasn’t wrong. By that point I was already backing away, but even from a dozen feet I heard the kid’s frustrated grunt. Gotta hand it to him, he was the real deal. True blue hero, always ready to save people dumb enough to get themselves in trouble. A rare breed.

He turned and stomped my way, his face all screwed up. I knew better than to try talking to him.

The client wasn’t far behind, and the blankness of his expression _still_ haunts me. Cold. As. _Ice._

I took one last look at the poor souls getting strung up and dangled. Closest I can get to describing it is when a kid holds up their scribbles to their parents for approval, except the scribbles were dying people and the kid was a set of demonic spikes. And the parent?

Yeah, I don’t got anything for that.

“Bad for business…”

Everyone knows I’m not the fighting type, more a collector and distributor of information. There wasn’t any good reason for me to stay, so I booked it outta town and didn’t look back. No way was I risking my hide.

Heard what happened a few months later from Trish and Lady, the parts they knew anyway. I still can’t believe Dante’s gone. That asshole _still_ owes me for the electric bill.

That about covers it. I’m gonna go drain a bottle of whiskey. Good luck.

Morrison

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's pretty fun to write, not gonna lie. 
> 
> I'm sending all my good vibes to you guys, thanks for your interest and support! It means so much to me when I see that email <3
> 
> Next chapter - Shackled, featuring Vergil.


	9. Shackled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day nine with the prompt of Shacked, featuring Vergil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another day, another chapter! Enjoy!
> 
> Warnings for torture and other Nelo Angelo things.

Iron chains and black tendrils wrapped around his every muscle, holding his limbs in place in an unforgiving grip. Even through the thick plating of his armor, icy fingers caressed his every nerve beneath their touch. He reeked of sweat and piss and tracks of tortured tears leaked from his eyes.

He was screaming. Only the familiar texture of the Yamato’s grip anchored him in sanity.

Demonic laughter mixed with his howls from where Mundus observed his torment. Visions of blonde hair drenched in blood danced across his eyes, whirling into a tornado.

“Son of Sparda. How disgraceful.”

After countless hours of torture, his body was broken beyond repair. His bones were dust ground under the heel of his oppressor, his blood the acid spewing from demonic lips. Tendons and sinew stretched and tore his joints apart. Shards of glass and steel ripped through his vocal cords and sank into his belly to complete his evisceration.

Oblivion never sounded so lovely, but begging was not in his nature. Not that Mundus would accept his pleas, anyway. It was his choice whether he went quietly or fought him for every inch. Only one option remained, one last chance to display his will.

Instigation.

Vergil smirked. He refused to disgrace the memory of his father, nor would his mind allow the thought of dishonoring his blade by holding it through his death. It brought forth a new level of agony, both physical and mental to open his fingers. He bowed his head in respect as his treasured companion left his grasp.

“Done with the drivel yet?” he paused to spit out a mouthful of blood. “I can still keep going.”

“Sparda… _Sparda. _That traitor. Had he not sullied demon blood with a _human_ _womb_, perhaps he could’ve had a son with at least _some_ grit.”

What nonsense. Yes, his blood was diluted, but his resolve never faltered. His determination was the only reason he still lived. None could question his mental fortitude.

Only his physical.

Rancid breath was a hot cloud on his face. His aching body shifted, monstrous fingers curling to support his limp form and bring it closer still. The chains snapped and fell away, the tendrils taking one last chance to pierce him before they withdrew.

“Let me save you from that weakness.”

Thick black tendrils leaked from Mundus’ palms and formed a helix around his floating limbs. A new form of agony was approaching, not death but some fresh torture Vergil knew he could not endure. Terror he hadn’t felt in decades flooded his mind, his heart racing and stomach aflutter as he reached out to Yamato in desperation.

“The heart is a tumor of weakness. Let me _rid_ you of it.”

The tendrils multiplied, weaving together into a net around him. He thrashed, writhing against the black void but it was too strong. Mundus was right, he was too _weak. _

As always.

“You need neither ego, nor memories. I will bestow upon you a new name, Servant of the Demon Emperor.”

The strange ache burrowed under his flesh and nestled into his heart. He was fire and ice, lightning and rage. The full fury of the Sparda bloodline pulsed in his veins but it was not enough. _He _was not enough. Cold forced out every last memory of warmth within him and with it went his last shred of stubborn resistance. Why did he fight, anyway? What was he doing here?

Who _was_ he?

“Your new name will be… _Nelo Angelo._”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone hasn't seen it, this is based off Visions of V. Definitely check it out, it covers how V got the familiars and other pre-DMC5 events. 
> 
> As always, a shower of confetti on you for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! 
> 
> Next chapter - Unconscious, featuring Eva and Dante.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, leaving kudos and commenting! You guys make my day with every click.


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